


Futile Devices

by hibiscus_tea



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood and Injury, Found Family, Happy Ending, Homeless Keith, Homophobia, M/M, Q-slur mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-21 06:20:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11938131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hibiscus_tea/pseuds/hibiscus_tea
Summary: Shiro meets Keith in late March, at 11pm.It’s just a kid with blood in his teeth and a broken bottle in his hands.





	Futile Devices

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the Sufjan Stevens song of the same name.

It’s just a kid with blood in his teeth and a broken bottle in his hands. Homeless, by the looks of it. Too many layers for late March, and an overflowing, tattered backpack at his feet in the alleyway.

 

11pm off an empty street, and Shiro has to sock one of the burlier guys in the jaw before the three of them decide to run off. Probably for the best, the cornered kid looks feral.

 

“You alright?”

 

The broken bottle doesn’t lower, but the kid’s spit lands pink on the wet concrete. A cut high on his cheek, already bruising, and he works his jaw like it’s knocked a little out of place.

 

“Fine.” His voice is rough, low. “Thanks.” Probably doesn’t talk much, out here on his own.

 

“You pick fights a lot?” says Shiro, knuckles smarting. He hasn’t knocked someone flesh-to-flesh for ages. It’s been wrapped firsts and the rubber-and-sweat smell of a gym for a while now.

 

“Only when I need to,” says the kid. He glances between Shiro and the open end of the alleyway, eyes quick and narrow, shoulders still tight with the instinct to fight.

 

Shrio steps to the side as inconspicuously as he can, angling his body open, easy for the kid to pass, if he wants to. “Still,” says Shrio, “you should be more careful.”

 

“Uh huh.” He huffs a laugh, bending over with a wince to shoulder his bag. “Sure. I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

There’s a slight limp in his step, a wince when he puts pressure on his knee. His grip flexes around the broken bottle when he moves past Shiro. His eyes are fixed on the flickering street lights at the open end of the alley.

 

The rain starts slowly, as it always does this time of year, landing light on the bridge of Shiro’s nose, on the back of his hand. They both look up at the sky at the same time. _He can take care of himself_ , thinks Shiro, _you just saw that. Don’t interfere any more than you already have. Don’t-_

 

“You need somewhere to stay tonight?”

 

The kid stiffens, and then turns with the curl of irony in his smile, eyebrow raised. Blood trickles slow down his cheek. “You offering?”

 

Making a mockery of Shiro’s offer, twisting his words. “Somewhere safe,” insists Shiro, “for a couple of nights.” The kid just stares at him for a second.

 

“You’re serious,” he says. His face is thrown into half-shadow from the street lights. Shiro tries to guess his age. Sixteen? Seventeen?

 

“Yeah,” shrugs Shiro. The rain is becoming more insistent now, shattering the surface of the puddles already in the concrete, flooding the ripped plastic bags, the dirty foil insides of the trash that litters the alleyway. “You’ve probably dealt with worse, but you could probably use a roof over your head tonight. And a first-aid kit.”

 

The kid doesn’t wipe off the trail of blood, sluggish down a cheekbone. A little too sharp, a little too pale. His hair is pulled back in a loose hairband, the knots are visible when he tilts his head, and the streetlight catches his dark eyes, strands of hair falling over his forehead.

 

“I would win,” says the kid, “if you tried anything.” He eyes Shiro up and down. “I’ve taken on guys bigger than you.”

 

“I don’t doubt it,” says Shiro, allowing a smile, “you were doing fine against those three assholes all by yourself. But it’s easier with a little help, huh?”

 

Maybe the ghost of a smile on that split-lip mouth. “Yeah, maybe,” he says. The grip doesn’t loosen around the neck of the broken bottle, but the defensive stance relaxes, just a touch.

 

“It’s not far from here,” says Shiro. “We can walk.” Better than herding some frightened, armed kid into a strange car. “And if you don’t want to stick around, that’s fine, too.” He raises his hands, palms up. The kid isn’t feral, he’s smart. Sharp at the edges. Scared.

 

The kid pulls up his hood against the climbing crescendo of late-March rain. He brushes hair off his forehead, thumbs the blood off his bottom lip. “Yeah, okay,” he says, finally.

 

*

 

He leads the kid - Keith - up the stairs. Rain drips from Shiro’s coat, but Keith keeps his hood up, stained dark with water.

 

“Just up here,” says Shiro, breaking the quiet. Keith isn’t much of a talker. Shiro got his first name and his age - eighteen. “You might want to stow the weapon,” advises Shiro, glancing to the bottle held in a looser grip.

 

Keith eyes him a little warily, but puts the bottle down on the bare concrete stairs. Indistinct music echoes down the empty stairwell, filtering from beyond the landing. Shiro leads Keith down to door 3-E, and knocks.

 

It takes a minute, but then there’s the sound of a lock. The door opens to a dishevelled Lance tugging on his shirt.

 

“Hiya,” he grins. “Shiro, what’s up, dude? Been making friends?” The door swings open further, and he steps back to let them in.

 

Keith follows Shiro in, tentative. He flips his hood down. The injuries look a little worse in the light of the apartment.

 

“This is Keith,” introduces Shiro, “he needs a place to crash for a night or two.”

 

“Yeah, I can see,” says Lance, taking in Keith’s battered appearance, the roughed-up backpack hanging off his shoulder. “No worries, man.” His smile is disarming when he claps Keith on the shoulder. Standing there with mussed hair, a loose tank, and an easy smile, he’s exactly what Shiro wanted for a kid with a split lip and a fighting stance. “Couch is yours for however long you need it, dude,” Lance offers, and Shiro gives a quiet sigh of relief.

 

Keith clears his throat, fingers flexing around the strap of his backpack. The edges of his fingerless gloves are frayed. “Thanks,” he says, “but I’m not gonna stay long.”

 

He glances over at Shiro. For the first time, his stance is unsure, his boots shift slightly on the worn blue carpet.

 

“That’s cool, man,” says Lance, “I get it.” He talks over his shoulder as he moves towards the bedroom, at the opposite end of the space. “We get people in and out of here all the time. Shiro’s got a big heart for the troubled queer kids.”

 

There’s a heavy pause. Then, Keith speaks, low and dangerous. “The what?”

 

Lance stops, halfway through a doorway.

 

“Lance,” Shiro warns, “we don’t know Keith’s situation.”

 

“Uh…” says Lance, looking between Keith and Shiro nervously.

 

“You wanna call me queer again?” Keith’s hands curl into fists, his stance shifts. Shiro stands at his side, debating whether trying to hold Keith back will help or harm the situation.

 

Lance pales a little. “Look, man, I don’t wanna-”

 

The sound of the door unlocking cuts him off. Light humming, and the rustle of grocery bags accompanies Hunk through the door. He takes the scene in with curious eyes, not really taking in Keith’s defensive posture.

 

“Hey guys,” he says easily. He crosses the room to touch the small of Lance’s back, to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. He frowns when Lance tilts his head slightly to avoid it, eyes on the floor, darting momentarily to Keith. Shiro’s breath aches out of him at the sight. “Uh, what’s going on?”

 

Lance takes a breath. Hunk’s hand still rests protectively at the small of his back. “Shiro brought Keith over. He needs a place to stay, but I just remembered Pidge needs, um, a place to crash and I said they could come here, so-”

 

“Oh,” says Hunk, brow creased, “I’m sure we could make space. If you don’t mind, Keith?”

 

Keith takes a breath to answer, but Lance cuts him off. “We’ll make some calls, okay? But you can’t stay here.” His voice is firm, and he pulls away from Hunk to walk away - to the kitchen, maybe, out of sight. He scrubs a too-conscious hand through his hair.

 

Lance doesn’t look at Keith as he goes, but Shiro does. He sees the wide-eyed, lost look. The fear on his face like the situation is spiralling out of hand, and Shiro realises abruptly, that there’s been a miscommunication.

 

“Lance, wait,” he says, and Lance stops halfway across the room. Hunk has set the groceries down on the floor, and watches the tense interaction with worried eyes. “I think- Keith, would you like to say something?”

 

Keith clenches and unclenches his fists at his sides like a nervous tic, eyes darting to Lance. “I didn’t realize-” he starts, and then clears his throat, frustrated at having to search for words. “I thought you meant something different, when you said, um.” He swallows around the word like he can’t bring himself to say it.

 

Comprehension breaks across Lance’s face, then worry as he takes in Keith’s injuries again. He takes a breath, lets it out.

 

“I’ll get the first aid kit,” he says, and makes his way into the kitchen.

 

Keith stands, isolated. He makes eye contact with Hunk, who watches him, worry in the furrow of his brow. There are several, stretching seconds. His fists clench and unclench at his sides.

 

“I should go,” says Keith, all in a rush. He turns on his heel, but Shiro catches his wrist quickly. He realises his mistake when Keith jolts away, turns back to face him with bared teeth. It’s fight or flight for him, that much is clear. No time or energy for debate, for an in between. He’s been on his own for too long.

 

“Just sit down,” suggests Shiro, tone measured. “Lance and Hunk can patch you up, and you can leave afterwards, if you still want to.”

 

“I can’t speak for Lance,” says Hunk, offering a tentative smile, “but we can make space for you here, if you want it. For tonight or, you know, however long you need.”

 

With every kindness extended towards him, Keith looks more like a cornered animal. “You guys don’t know me,” he says, defiant, like it’s an explanation.

 

“No,” says Hunk, calmly taking control of the situation, “but I bought ingredients for garlic knots at the store, and we’re gonna have an almost-midnight feast.” He checks his watch, and shrugs. “Because chefs have the worst hours ever, but we’re still going to celebrate Lance’s promotion.”

 

He breaks into a sunny smile when Lance appears, first aid kit in hand.

 

“Lance,” says Shiro, “you got a promotion?”

 

It dispels the line of worry from his mouth, and a proud smile curls at the corners. “Yeah, I’m aquarium manager now. My boss took me out for lunch and everything when she told me.” He laughs, happy as he settles on the couch. “I thought I was getting fired, but it turns out-” he raises a faux-cocky eyebrow, “I have passion _and_ drive for my work, so shove that up your hole, Carol.”

 

Shiro raises an eyebrow as Hunk snorts. “Carol?”

 

“Oh my God,” sighs Lance, and then launches into a dramatic tirade against a particularly annoying coworker. Hunk laughs and interjects to add to the story, gathering the grocery bags and disappearing through the open door of the kitchen to put the food away.

 

It’s domestic, and sweet, and Shiro finds a soft smile on his face as he watches Keith take it in. Keith stands awkwardly in front of the couch, watching Lance laugh and gesticulate, first aid box in his lap forgotten. Lance smiles whenever Hunk interrupts to add something, always looking over his shoulder to smile in Hunk’s direction.

 

“And then I heard her with Britta at the water cooler, plotting to take the Hippo enclosure away from me!”

 

Keith can’t quite muffle the snort, gloved hand reaching to cover his mouth too late. Lance glances up at him in surprise, like he forgot he was there for a moment.

 

They stare at each other for a second, and then Lance’s features soften.

 

“Keith, right?” he says, shifting over to make room on the couch. “Think you’re pretty tough, huh?” He grins, teasing, “I’ve seen worse. Siddown.”

 

And Keith drops his bag at his feet, and sits. Shiro settles into an armchair with a sigh.

 

“Shitty weather, huh?” chatters Lance, as the rain splatters onto the sidewalk outside. He reaches out, and takes Keith’s chin with gentle fingers, tilting his head.

 

“Yeah,” says Keith, belatedly. He doesn’t know where to look, eyes skittering over the worn, homey furniture in the small apartment, settling momentarily on Shiro for help. Shiro gives him a reassuring smile, and watches Keith’s eyes dart back to Lance’s concentrated expression.

 

His fists clench and unclench in his lap.

 

“Took a couple rough hits,” observes Lance, “but I should see the other guy, am I right?”

 

“All three of them,” adds Shiro.

 

Lance peers at Keith, impressed. “Three, huh?”

 

“Found him fighting three against one, and winning,” says Shiro. “I knocked one of them in the jaw, and I guess that was the last straw, ‘cause they took off running.”

 

“Guess you are pretty tough,” says Lance, wiping the dried blood from Keith’s cheek, gentle around the wound.

 

Keith swallows around a reply. Shiro almost wants that strong, twist of a smile from the alley back. Seems like Keith knows how to handle himself with split knuckles and blood on his teeth, but not so much when someone knocks him with the bare minimum of compliments. He’s even turning a little red at the tips of the ears, across his otherwise pale cheeks.

 

“Gotta be, I guess,” says Keith, finally. He barely winces when Lance cleans out his cuts, when the antibacterial spray hits.

 

Lance nods, eyes quiet as he wipes the blood from Keith’s broken bottom lip. In the kitchen, there’s the noise of busy dinner preparations.

 

“I’m gonna go help Hunk out,” says Shiro, pushing himself up from the chair. “You alright, Keith?”

 

Lance releases Keith’s bottom lip long enough for him to say quietly, genuinely, “yeah, thank you, Shiro.”

 

“No problem,” Shiro says, offering a relieved smile.

 

In the kitchen, Hunk welcomes him with a smile, a little tired at the corners of the eyes.

 

“Long day?” says Shiro, tone mellow in the half-privacy of the room.

 

“Same as always,” says Hunk. His fingers are sticky with garlic, the dough cut and tied into floured knots. “I love it, though.”

 

Shiro watches the practiced knife movements, watches Hunk bunch the parsley, chop it thin and fast.

 

“Sorry for putting him on you,” Shiro says, finally. “I found him fighting three big guys in an alley, figured he could use some help. He’s young.” Only four years younger than Shiro himself, but- “I didn’t want to take him back to my place. The implications of that, you know.”

 

“Yeah, I get it,” says Hunk. Herbs garlic, and melted butter are stirred. They smell divine. “You know me and Lance always want to help out.” The oven beeps once, preheated, and Hunk brushes the melted butter onto the dough, busy hands, contemplative face. “What happened before I got in? I kind of missed all of... whatever that was.”

 

Shiro shifts, crossing his arms over his chest. “Lance said something about me helping, uh, ‘troubled queer kids’, and Keith reacted… a little violently, maybe.”

 

Hunk worries at his lip. “So that’s why-”

 

“Yeah, Lance thought Keith reacted, well, from a place of homophobia. But actually, I think it’s the total opposite,” explains Shiro. “He’s touchy. But I found him fighting off a bunch of guys for _some_ reason. The kid knows how to defend himself.” He shrugs, weight too serious on his shoulders. “Shame he had to learn in the first place.”

 

Hunk lets out a low sigh, forehead creasing. “Sure is ugly out there,” he says. Shiro watches him slide the pan of dough into the oven, watches those soft, capable hands clear away flour and herb stems, remembers the way those knuckles split on jaws in a similar mode of self defense.

 

“Not so bad in here, though,” says Shiro, letting himself relax against the countertop as Hunk dusts flour from his hands. In the quiet, he can hear Lance humming something from the radio this morning.

 

Hunk fills a pot with water, and sets it on the stove, soft smile on his face all the while. It’s the smile he saves for his family, for Lance. “Yeah,” he says, setting the stovetop temperature high, “it is pretty good.”

 

*

 

They sit around Hunk and Lance’s tiny kitchen table. The white plaster on Keith’s cheek is accentuated by a Dora-the-Explorer sticker, right in the centre.

 

Pasta is shared out into mismatched bowls. Lance’s phone plays music in the background as the garlic knots are passed around, as they sing _Happy Promotion to You, Happy Promotion to You_ , to the tune of Happy Birthday.

 

Keith is quiet, but less tense around the shoulders. His elbows bump against Lance’s as they eat around the cramped table, his wrist knocks Shiro’s cup. He doesn’t flinch, or try to take up less space. He doesn’t run.

 

In fact. “These are good,” says Keith, speaking through a mouthful of dough, “what did you call these?”

 

“Garlic knots,” says Hunk, mouth similarly full, and Shiro is happy to note that apparently neither of them were raised right.

 

“You mean you’ve never had them?” Lance stares at Keith, incredulous.

 

Shiro laughs, at the unphased expression on Keith’s face.

 

“Uh, no?”

 

“Oh my God,” says Lance, pasta slipping off his fork as he leans over to make his point, “your life starts right in this moment. Seize the day, Keith. Seize the goddamn day.”

 

Keith’s brow furrows. “You’re really weird,” he says, tone frank.

 

There’s a pause, where Lance’s face freezes, and Keith’s unphased expression begins to melt into worry. Shiro almost comes to his rescue, when-

 

“Oh my God,” Hunk snorts. “Keith, man, you gotta stick around.”

 

“My own boyfriend,” laments Lance, shaking his head. He reaches out and pushes Keith at the shoulder, playfully sulking. It knocks Keith into Shiro’s shoulder, and Shiro nudges him back into place.

 

A tentative smile is curling at Keith’s mouth.

 

“But you should,” says Lance. He points his fork at Keith. “Stick around, I mean. We can make up the couch no problem. I’m pretty sure you figured the stuff about Pidge staying over was a whole lot of bullshit.”

 

“Uh,” says Keith, smile turning sheepish, “yeah. I figured.”

 

“Cool,” says Lance. “So, you’re staying.”

 

“Yeah,” says Keith, shoulder relaxing against Shiro’s in the cramped space. “Yeah, I’m staying.”

 

“Sweet!” says Hunk. “Aw, guys, I wish we could have a group hug right now.” He throws his arms over Lance and Shiro’s shoulders. Shiro laughs as Lance pulls Keith into a one-armed hug, and he gently settles an arm over Keith’s shoulders, pulling him in.

 

“I feel like we should be singing again,” admits Shiro.

 

“What should we sing,” says Hunk. “Lance?”

 

“Uh. _Happy moo-oove in Keith_ ,” he sings, and Hunk and Shiro join in with a laugh, as Keith, a stranger, a new friend, slowly blushes at the dinner table. “ _Happy moo-oove in Keith, happy move in dear Ke-eith, happy move in to you!_ ”

 

*

 

It’s well past midnight when Shiro slides his coat on. Lance and Hunk are talking quietly in the kitchen, but Keith sits on his made-up sofa bed, watching Shiro with quiet eyes. The bruise on his cheek has purpled impressively.

 

“Text me whenever,” Shiro insists, “seriously, Keith. Whatever you need.”

 

Keith nods, fingers tight around his flip-phone.

 

“Thanks, Shiro,” he says. He’s taken a shower, brushed his teeth. His feet are bare. He swims in an old, threadbare shirt of Hunk’s, Lance’s sweatpants rolled up around his ankles. “I’ll only stay a day or two,” he promises.

 

“Whatever you want,” Shiro reminds him. “Lance and Hunk won’t kick you out unless you’re an asshole. You’re good for a meal here. You can do some laundry, settle in. Don’t rush off, okay?”

 

“Okay,” agrees Keith. He toys with the black hairband on his wrist, gloves packed away in his bag. “You pick up a lot of guys off the street, then?”

 

“Well,” says Shiro, stumbling over the phrasing. He watches Keith’s smile as he flounders for a second. “I try-” he rights himself, “I help where I can, you know? I volunteer at the LGBT youth centre on market street. There’s groups. Talks. Events. You should come by sometime.”

 

Keith’s gaze wavers. “That obvious, huh?”

 

“Not necessarily,” says Shiro, “but you don’t have to pretend, here.”

 

Keith is silent for a moment, eyes on Shiro. “It’s been a while since anyone was looking out for me,” he says. He’s still got a purple Dora sticker on his plaster, offsetting the seriousness of the moment.

 

“We’ve got our own little family going,” says Shiro. He can see the way that hits Keith, the hurt buried deep there, rising too close to the surface.

 

“I want.” Keith swallows, stands up all of a sudden, sweatpants unspooling, too long around his ankles. “I want to thank you, Shiro.”

 

Those eyes are too serious for the big yellow t-shirt, the late hour, the damp hair curling around his ears.

 

“Hey guys,” comes Lance’s sleepy voice. He leads Hunk out of the kitchen by the hand. When he shuffles over to wrap Shiro up in a hug, he smells like garlic. It’s nice anyway, even when he yawns into Shiro’s shoulder. He pulls away and shoots two finger guns at Keith. “If you need anything, you know where to find us.”

 

“Night Keith, night Shiro,” calls Hunk, leading Lance away by the wrist. He pats Keith on the shoulder as they pass. The bedroom door closes behind them.

 

“Goodnight, Keith,” says Shiro. He zips up his raincoat, opens the door.

 

“Night, Shiro,” is Keith’s quiet reply. It’s a moment before he sits back down.

 

Shiro pauses at the door, watches Keith watch him. “Text me,” he says, again. Just in case.

 

“Shiro,” says Keith, and there’s that smile again, curling wry at the corner. “I will.”

 

“Okay,” nods Shiro, smiling, too. He can laugh at himself.

 

He shuts the door carefully behind him. The rest of the floor is quiet. The door locks itself.

 

When he’s halfway down the flight of stairs, he sees Keith’s broken bottle, still waiting there. His phone buzzes.

 

On the screen.

 

 **Keith:** Text.

 

Shiro stares at it, and then huffs a laugh, leaning on the railing to text back. He stares at the keypad for a moment and then.

 

 **Shiro:** Text.

 

The reply takes a couple of seconds. Shiro toes the broken bottle. It rolls down the stairs, but doesn’t break.

 

 **Keith:** Good enough?

 

Shiro thinks of the walk home. He yawns into his sleeve, but he stays for a moment longer on the stairwell.

 

 **Shiro:** We’ll work on it.

**Author's Note:**

> It's 1am. All mistakes are my own. 
> 
> I really enjoyed writing this, and I'd love to hear what you think!


End file.
